


Unflinching Heart

by crackinthecup



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/F, Femslash, Mild Gore, Tol-in-Gaurhoth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-08-10 04:40:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7830688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crackinthecup/pseuds/crackinthecup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A meeting and an ending: Beren is not the only one waiting for Lúthien on the isle of Tol-in-Gaurhoth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unflinching Heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Angbanginangband](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angbanginangband/gifts).



Stars flickered in the sky, little luminous pinpricks shredding at the darkness. Morgoth’s lieutenant had fled whither he would. His blood glistened on the grass and dripped from Huan’s fangs. Lúthien stroked the crown of the great hound’s head, hand dipping down to rub fondly at his throat. Her fingers drew away flecked with the gore streaked through his fur. 

‘‘You’ve done well, friend,’’ she murmured, tipping her head back to feel the cool night air over her cheeks. It had taken long to subdue Sauron. 

Tentatively she loosed her power, letting it seep from blood and sinew to probe at the tower. She supposed it must have been fair once, stone upon gleaming stone delicately winding round and round to a dizzying height. Now the very ground upon which it stood was rotten with evil. 

She stepped forward, gliding to the middle of the bridge, Huan at her side. Her beautiful face was set: cold and remote, even as the stars above; she had left gentleness behind like a cloak she had little use for. A deliberate wrench of power ripped down the iron gates, which crashed and shrieked to the ground. With an easy flick of her hand, the mortar forgot the weight of countless years, sloshing down the walls as though newly mixed. The stones slipped and slid: some crashed to the ground to roll chipped and cracked across the grass; others hurtled down into the abyss beyond the rim of the isle, forever lost to the swell and roar of Sirion. The proud walls dwindled to rubble. Sauron’s lurking creatures had a choice between plunging to their deaths into the chattering waters below, or perishing in the devastation of the tower; for none dared to face the bright, blazing terror upon the bridge. Lúthien’s short hair fluttered in the tumult of the air that followed. The tower of Minas Tirith was no more. 

Slowly Sauron’s pits disgorged their captives, and they could be discerned flitting among the rubble like emaciated ghosts. Those among them whose hearts were not entirely shriveled stitched together sufficient courage to cross the bridge. They scuttled out of the ruins, wincing as the moonlight dappled their faces, avoiding Lúthien as best they could. They were afraid of her; for power still trilled in the air about her, and there was a fell light in her eyes. 

She paid them little heed; she was there for no one but Beren. But the last of the captives now bolted past her, and she had seen no sight of him, nor had she heard his voice again. She strode forward, Huan at her heels, and soon she was standing amid toppled stones, shards of glass, the broken bodies of orcs. Beren was nowhere to be found. She would have ventured deeper into the ruined fortress, but Huan’s growl brought her to a standstill. 

Wings flapped, the stars faltered, and a rich voice dripped through the night: ‘‘No one told me we were to entertain royalty.’’ 

Huan was growling more vigorously now, but Lúthien laid a palm upon his head. 

‘‘Hush, friend,’’ she soothed, turning to the creature perching upon a tottering pile of stones. ‘‘You have no business here,’’ she continued quietly, addressing Thuringwethil, but there was no fury in her voice. ‘‘Fly to your master.’’ 

Thuringwethil chuckled, an insolent lilt to the sound. Her eyes were as small orbs of obsidian, black swirled through with the liquid crimson of her irises, glistening with a preternatural sheen. She pinned Lúthien with her unsettling gaze. Lúthien remained unruffled. 

‘‘I have no master,’’ Thuringwethil crooned, lazily crossing her legs. 

‘‘You do the Abhorred One’s bidding.’’ 

Thuringwethil shrugged. ‘‘It suits me, for the time being. The High Ones beyond the Sea take no stock of vampire-folk.’’ 

‘‘Yet once you were of a noble race.’’ _A little like me_ , Lúthien did not say. 

‘‘I am still,’’ Thuringwethil smiled, and the sharp points of her teeth gleamed in the moonlight. ‘‘This?’’ she continued, stretching out a membranous wing, turning slightly to let Lúthien see the bat-fur pelt draped over her shoulders. ‘‘This is an improvement.’’ 

Lúthien remained silent. Her heart was fretting and whirring within her. _Beren_. ‘‘I did not come here for you,’’ she said sharply, turning away. 

Wings unfurled and stirred the night air into a rush of wind. Suddenly Thuringwethil was in front of Lúthien, barring her way. 

‘‘Did you not, Princess?’’ Thuringwethil hissed, twisting the words into mockery. 

She advanced, but Lúthien stood her ground, undaunted, frowning up into Thuringwethil’s pale face. Anger was stormed across Lúthien’s brow, and she slipped a hand behind her, beneath her cloak. Speed was her paramount concern, and she would tolerate no further delay. 

‘‘I do not owe you anything,’’ Lúthien said, a chill creeping into her voice. ‘‘Idle dalliance was our lot, beneath the eaves of the forest where the moonlight was sweeter than here. I gave you my time then, but I shall give no more now.’’ 

_(She had been younger, she had been curious; Thuringwethil’s touch had been thrilling.)_

Thuringwethil laughed, and Lúthien was surprised to hear genuine mirth there. A clawed hand gently cupped Lúthien’s cheek. The touch was cool against her skin, and she shivered. 

‘‘Do you think I’m jealous?’’ Thuringwethil asked, amusement rich and rotting in her voice. ‘‘Nay: I care nothing for your lovers. You misunderstand me.’’ 

She leaned closer, bridging the distance between them so that the curdling smell of blood wafted over Lúthien. Thuringwethil dragged her hand downward to rest against the nape of Lúthien’s neck, blade-like fingernails scratching over the sensitive skin there, never quite drawing blood. 

‘‘You _have_ come here for me,’’ Thuringwethil continued, taunting, breath hot against the shell of Lúthien’s ear. ‘‘Do you not intend to purge this place of evil? Here I am then: I am no creature of the sun.’’ 

Despite her earlier words, her allegiance lay with Sauron, with the Black One upon his cruel throne. She had watched as Sauron had been tossed out of his fortress in shame, and she knew her teeth could mete out avenging death. She was not like those scarpering orcs; Lúthien did not frighten her. 

Thuringwethil’s mouth was soft against Lúthien’s jaw, angling downward to press kisses to the side of her neck. A moan drooped heavily from Lúthien’s lips, and her left hand came up to tangle in Thuringwethil’s hair; her right hand clenched at her side. Lúthien was well aware that Thuringwethil could feel the thundering hurtle of blood just beneath her skin. She felt light pressure on her carotid artery, Thuringwethil’s sharp teeth scraping at her pulse, on the cusp of puncturing flesh. 

And then blood was spraying over her, and she let the dagger fall from her right hand. Savagely she twisted her fingers in Thuringwethil’s hair, yanking her head back, watching as blood continued to spurt from the gash across her throat, as her hands frantically scrabbled to cover the wound and delay the inevitable; but her claws only tore her skin open further. 

‘‘I wanted to let you live, you know,’’ Lúthien told her. For the space of several heartbeats, she held Thuringwethil’s dying body by the hair. Fathomless eyes grew blank, their luster fading. Lúthien cast her to the ground, but only her wings, her bat’s hide, crumpled among the stones. 

Far above the stars were bright again and the moon had begun to wilt into the West. Lúthien regarded the pair of wings splayed upon the ground, rocked like a rickety barge by the wind, and her heart was unflinching within her. 

‘‘Our task is still before us,’’ she said to Huan, and they picked a path to where the darkness was deepest.   



End file.
